For No Good Reason
by sphinxofthenile
Summary: 1945, Berlin. While the Third Reich burns, fates are entwined by history. Sephiroth/Cloud, Sephiroth/Genesis. World War 2 AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: World War II AU, angst, dub-con, minor, blood, death, suicide, violence, offensive ideologies. Also mentions of torture, extermination and labour camps and genocide, but nothing very graphic on that front.****  
****Disclaimer: I don't own them, they own me.**

**A/N: **Written for a prompt in the Final Fantasy VII Kink Meme. Huge thanks for the beta reading go to the awesome Georgie. Also, please bear in mind the following:

1. This is historical fiction. I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but this is still only fiction, and I took liberties here and there.  
2. I will say it once and only once to avoid any misunderstandings. The offensive ideologies depicted here have nothing to do with my own personal views, they belong to the characters.  
3. Constructive criticism is much encouraged and appreciated!

* * *

**For No Good Reason**

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers. ~Jose Naronsky

* * *

**1941, Warsaw**

His footsteps echoed loudly in the corridor of the building that used to be the city hall before it became the German headquarters. There were identical doors on both sides; he paused before the one that had two soldiers guarding it. He barely wasted a glance on them even as they greeted him formally before he opened the door and stepped inside. He lightly touched his ankles together, right arm raised.

"Oberstgruppenführer, Sir."

"Please take a seat." Lazard glanced at him over the silver rim of his glasses, then resumed writing.

He took the offered seat and waited patiently for the blonde to finish.

Finally, Lazard put down the pen and leaned back in his chair with a wry smile.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting. I would like to inform you that I have looked into your request, and I must respectfully decline."

"But Sir, I..."

"Yes, I know, you asked to be assigned to the forces appointed for the Moscow campaign." Lazard pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "And your enthusiasm is very honorable indeed. But let me be honest. You are one of our best assets, Sephiroth. You are young and rising quickly in the ranks, proving to be a real inspiration to our troops. Therefore I have decided to entrust you with leading the Sea of Azov Offensive Operation." Lazard looked at him with victorious satisfaction, as if waiting for him to thank his superior with tears of joy in his eyes.

He pressed his lips into a thin line before managing to push a stiff 'thank you, Sir' past them. The rest of his briefing went by as if in a haze. Once again, he was painfully reminded that he was just a tool to be used as those above him saw fit. His wishes and opinions didn't matter. They never did.

The sky was a dark grey when he exited the building, pulling his long black coat tighter around himself against the chilly wind.

A few dozen people were herded across the square before the city hall in the direction of the train station, the yellow stars on their clothing dandelions in the dawn.

As he passed them by, he wondered if the early chill was boding ill for the upcoming operations. Perhaps they should have waited another few months with the attacks. Winter without a doubt was going to be hell on the troops.

* * *

**1945, Berlin**

He watched the light of the small desk lamp flicker, then become steady again. It would be so easy to break the glass, and without the gas within, there would be no light, just the darkness of a place that had no windows. Not for the first time, he wondered if men had something in common with lightbulbs.

His hand rested on the piece of paper before him idly, small, efficient black letters standing out starkly against the whiteness.

It reminded him of dead bodies in the snow.

It reminded him of far too many things he would rather not remember.

A soft knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Come in."

"Herr Generaloberst, the Reichsführer summons you to his office," the timid, lanky Lieutenant muttered, voice soft just like his knock had been.

"Very well." Sephiroth stood, but the boy looked at the papers with a lost expression and cleared his throat.

"With the reports, I'm afraid, Sir."

"I was finished with them anyway," he said flatly and signed them before organising them into a neat pile and slipping the whole stack into a folder. "Thank you Lieutenant, you are dismissed."

He reached for the lamp, but then thought better of it and left without switching it off.

* * *

_The mansion was a little worse for the wear from the outside after the fights, but inside it looked like nothing had changed. Except that now, instead of his own German officers, Russians were occupying it._

_The courtyard was bleak and covered in snow. Would the Reds shoot him there? Would they let him live? Or just hang him like they did with Colonel Reitlinger at Bryansk? Did they even know about the Geneva Conventions? Would it perhaps be a dripping wet underground cell where they would keep him? Torture and humiliate him like it was said in the stories circulating in the German encampments?_

_Not like it really mattered. He was a General of the Waffen-SS. It bound him to show an example of duty and pride, no matter what it cost. No matter how true it was. The troops don't remember truth. They remember heroes._

_They entered the main hall and the officer accompanying him said something in Russian, from which he only caught the word Podpolkovnik, Lieutenant Colonel. A man from a group of other officers leaning over a map straightened and turned back, a small smile on his face._

_"Welcome, Herr General, to my humble base of operations."_

_That stung. But the polite voice and the perfect German the other spoke made him all but forget about it._

_"And here I was thinking I was playing hide and seek with a seasoned veteran, just to find I have been fooled by a young fox," he retorted, saving face._

_"Luck has been on our side this time," he smiled, gesturing towards the others. "Please, consider yourself our guest."  
_

* * *

"Sephiroth?"

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"You seemed lost in thought." Lazard pushed his glasses up his nose, and it took all the General's willpower not to feel sick.

How he hated this man, always impeccably dressed, blonde hair slicked back with acute precision. His flat tone and annoying mannerisms, dainty glasses and white gloved hands that never held a weapon and yet there was more blood on them than on his, a strike of his pen sending millions to certain death.

He had to force himself to stay calm and collected.

"My apologies. I just remembered Izyum."

"Oh yes, I almost forgot you know these vermin far better than we do, General. Your captivity... it must've been a trauma."

"Indeed."

"I need you to deliver these strictly confidential orders to Heidegger. I can't trust anyone else with this."

His jaw tensed. Words, just words. On the surface, he was still the almighty General, but they never trusted him fully again after he returned to Berlin. He kept his voice calm and composed when he answered.

"I'm not familiar with that part of the city. I will need a guide."

"I already have someone in mind."

* * *

Cloud distractedly stirred his coffee, one of the few luxuries one could still enjoy in the Führer's bunker even though the news was bleaker and bleaker every day.

Barely an hour ago Kunsel, who had been assigned to help the Reich Postal Service, handed him a letter. It was ten months old, and Luxiére, who died during the Warsaw uprising the previous summer complained in it about artillery fire and the lack of proper rations and roads.

Cloud sighed and stood, gulping down the coffee in one go. Luxiére was dead... so were most people from his previous squad. Only Kunsel and Zack remained, even though he hadn't heard often about Zack since he had joined the Marine Hitler Youth, and even less since he had been promoted into the ranks of the Kriegsmarine. But even the last letter was almost four months old now... he didn't want to contemplate that.

He couldn't let their sacrifices be worthless. He had to fight on and give testimony about their heroism when they had restored the glory of their beloved homeland. And restore they would, simply because there was no other way, because the best of the Reich were fighting on the fronts with all they had, and...

His eyes widened as he collided with someone as he turned a corner, too lost in thought to pay attention. His surprise quickly turned to panic as his eyes took in the spotless black leather boots, the black uniform with more awards and medals that he had ever seen put together, the two Sig Runes identical to his own one all too visible and the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds standing out like a beacon in the night. Then he noticed the silver veil of hair and his breath caught in his throat.

"H-Herr Generaloberst, I-I'm so sorry!" he stuttered, mortified by his carelessness and yet enthralled by the close presence of his personal idol. General Sephiroth, greatest hero of the Eastern Front there ever was, who even managed to survive and return a month after being taken captive by the Russians. He watched that cold and aristocratic face with the stern green eyes looking down at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

Sephiroth studied the boy in silence, a pretty, angelic blonde who couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. The insignia of the Hitlerjugend stood out harshly against his brown uniform, the red and white diamond shape with the swastika in the middle. What caught his attention were the eyes, their blue like the spring sky above Berlin.

So much like...

"Are you Kameradschaftsführer Cloud Strife?" came the quiet, clipped voice, and all Cloud could do was nod his head frantically. The General knew his name!

"Then I believe it is you I've sent Lieutenant Beck looking for." The General reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "On the orders of Generalleutnant Weidling, you are to accompany me to supervise the southern barricades."

"Jawohl, Herr Generaloberst!" Cloud saluted like his life depended on the perfection of the action.

"At ease, Kameradschaftsführer. I need assistance, not hindrance. You are to meet me at my room at noon, not a minute later. Understood?"

"Perfectly, Herr Generaloberst!"

"Dismissed."

Despite not having much time, Cloud stayed and stared after the man until he disappeared from his sight. Then he sighed a little and bolted for his room, cheeks feeling far too hot for his own liking.

* * *

Exactly at noon, Cloud was standing before the general's door, smoothing down his uniform and making sure everything was perfect. Then he raised his hand to knock, and almost immediately the door opened.

"On time. Good," the General said curtly, then disappeared inside again.

Through the crack in the door Cloud could take a peek, which he did. The General's room was bigger and better equipped than his, with a small cabinet and an equally small, but comfortable looking armchair. There were pictures on the wall, framed and organised, the stark portrait of the Führer in the middle - but the photographs were too faded for him to be able to make them out.

"Ready?"

"Y-Yes Sir!" Cloud jerked with the embarrassment of being found staring at the General's personal belongings, especially by none other than the General himself. Who was already heading for the exit of the bunker, so he just hurried after him, falling in step behind his idol.

That black uniform... few still wore it in Berlin. The uniforms of the SS had been changed to resemble those of the Wehrmacht, but clearly, the general preferred the old one. If Cloud wanted to be honest, he couldn't imagine him in anything else but the regal black one. Compared to the others, he was like a raven compared to sparrows.

He couldn't recall a time when he had seen the man in passing and that dark uniform hadn't been perfect in every way, not a single crease in sight, the black boots spotlessly shining and every strand of hair in place. Not even after the day-long meetings reaching well into the night with the Führer and the other officers that others left with bloodshot eyes and stinking of cigarette smoke.

These thoughts swirled in his head as they stepped outside, eyes blinking rapidly, adjusting to the sudden light. He breathed deep from the air, fresh and light when compared to that of the bunker. It was nice to be out again, even though it was dangerous.

The streets were filled with debris from the bombings; barricades, mines, and traps were set up everywhere as the remaining forces prepared to defend Berlin. On the walls there were appeals, hurriedly scrawled in white paint. 'Every German will defend his capital. We shall stop the Red hordes at the walls of our Berlin.'

Cloud felt his chest swelling with pride at that. They were going to defend their city against the Reds, or anyone else who would ever dare to rise against the Reich. He sped up his steps to keep up with Sephiroth. That was when they heard the gunfire.

* * *

The shell flew over their heads and crashed into a building a few streets away. The ground shook with the force of it, debris flying everywhere and the detonation deafening.

"So it has started." Sephiroth looked up at the sky. Cloud could understand him only because he could see the way his lips moved, the noise making communication almost impossible. In a few minutes, dozens and dozens of shells darkened the sky.

Berlin was under attack.

Sephiroth grabbed his arm and they started running down the street, pistols drawn should they unexpectedly encounter enemy forces. A shell exploded only a few blocks away, a piece of granite hitting Cloud on the leg. He hissed and fell, but was yanked back onto his feet by Sephiroth.

All around, people screamed and ran for cover. At the nearby U-Bahn station, the crowd fought with nail and teeth to get to the safety of the underground. Those falling to the ground remained there.

No one cared.

Boys without uniform but some with the insignia of the Hitlerjugend rushed past, grenades in hand.

"The Reds! The Reds are coming!"

Gunfire echoed in the streets.

They were close to the barricades, almost there.

Another shell hit and debris rained down on them as the pavement shook. A man in the uniform of the Volkssturm running by fell to the ground and didn't move any more, bright red blood spilling onto the ground.

Cloud stopped and grabbed the rifle that had fallen to the ground, but the General gripped his wrist so harshly that he had to let go, tears of pain springing into his eyes.

"We have to fight!" he almost screamed, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that he was yelling at _the _General, but he didn't care. The Reds were coming; they couldn't just stand by and then crawl back into safety while others fought!

The slap caught him off guard, and he remained staring at the man who didn't seem affected by the events in the least, only his eyes seeming to be a bit brighter and harder than usual.

"What for? A crumbling Reich rotten to its foundations? A leader who has lost his mind so long ago? So that a megalomaniac can continue to play god?"

Cloud just stared, the words, cruel and shattering, barely registering in his mind. This wasn't happening. None of this was. He felt heavy and light inside at the same time, blank, wiped out. Suddenly he remembered the banks of the Oder in spring.

"We, we have to..."

When he next spoke, the General's voice was ice that chilled Cloud to the bone.

"We have _orders_, Kameradschaftsführer. I will consider any attempt to deviate from those orders defection."

Obey and live. Fight and get a bullet in the nape of the neck. The message was all loud and clear. Cloud swallowed and nodded, head spinning.

They reached the barricades in a matter of minutes, approaching a group of officers shouting orders. Sephiroth pulled an envelope out of his pocket, brisk steps carrying him to the one person Cloud actually recognised.

"SS Brigadeführer Heidegger, orders from the Führer!"

* * *

_"You have kept your word and refused to leave your troops behind even though you knew what you were risking. I must respect that."_

_"Why? You have won. We lost."_

_"You did what you could. But against General Winter, there is nothing you can do."_

_Yes, that damn winter of theirs. The cold made their weapons useless, their clothes worthless. He watched the man in the faint light of the fireplace, the sardonic lips and the stunning blue eyes that suddenly looked up from following the lines of something he guessed was Russian, but the weird symbols held no meaning to him._

_"I have killed so many of your people."_

_The wood cracked in the flames, sending sparks flying, slowly lulling with heat and soft light just like the quiet voice reaching his ears._

_"Drink your vodka and forget the troubles, druže.__"_

* * *

The room was nothing out of the ordinary, a wardrobe, a desk and a bed. The boy was lucky he got as much instead of having to share with others. Maybe the rumors were true about him being the bastard child of one of the higher ups, not like Sephiroth cared. He had long ago ceased to care about their hideous ideas and sickening rhetoric. He just came here to reprimand.

On the nightstand there were some old issues of the Wille und Macht and an empty glass. He could picture Cloud lying in bed and reading through them before falling asleep. Such the perfect little boy scout. It occured to him again, how young Cloud was, how tainted with the poison of the Party, of the Reich.

Such a worthless doll, such a mindless puppet.

On the far wall there was the compulsory picture of the Führer in a narrow golden frame, eyes serious, determined, mouth in a thin line. He couldn't look at it without his stomach turning. If only one of the many assassination attempts would've succeeded, the Führer would be dead by now and the war over. Yet, out of some sick twist of fate, the abomination who unleashed hell on the continent was still alive, and they had lost. They had lost the moment they let that madman take control. Now, Germany was in ruins, millions of its people dead, its cities reduced to ashes.

His _life_ was in ruins.

He shut the door with a force that startled Cloud, blue eyes looking up at him full of bewilderment and awe. Those blue eyes... Sephiroth didn't know if he wanted to drown himself in them or just never to see them again.

Everything he despised, everything he came to hate more and more with each bullet shot into the back of necks, each word of hate propaganda and each night spent alone was right there in front of him, the master on the picture and the marionette in the flesh.

In a swift move he pushed Cloud against the desk, one gloved hand gripping at golden hair and the other already reaching to unbutton the uniform pants, a sudden grip of burning cold fury threatening to suffocate him.

"G-General, Sir…"

Cloud's voice was surprised and trembling, but his hands tied into Sephiroth's silver hair as if holding on for dear life. He kissed down the delicate neck harshly, uncaring about leaving bruises, eyes shut tightly.

"Sir, this isn't right..."

Not right. He wanted to break away from the skin and laugh. If someone found out just a year ago, they would be heading straight to one of the extermination camps. Like this, here and now, all they would get would be a bullet to their heads, and they could bless their good fate for the quick departure.

He didn't care. These weren't his rules, they hadn't been for so long.

He grabbed Cloud and slammed him face down onto the desk, kicking his legs apart and yanking the pants down.

"Tell me to stop, and I will."

He didn't wait for the answer but it never came anyway, and he thrust his saliva-slicked fingers into Cloud's ass, forceful but not aiming to hurt. Pain, he had seen too much already; too much pain, too much death, too much hurt and blood and too much loss. He was going to defile that pure devotion and make him _like_ it, the puppet with the bluest eyes.

Tears gathered in his eyes as he sank white teeth into soft flesh, not spilling just burning, and he felt like choking with unwanted memories. He pinned both Cloud's wrists to the tabletop with one hand, the other making sure no sounds escaped as he finally entered him, giving just a few moments for adjustment before he started moving.

This boy, one of the Führer's finest in the whole organisation, was pushing back against him and moaning like a whore. If only they could've seen it, the whole insane bunch, if only they could've seen that pale back arch as the little brat came against the underside of the table and Sephiroth inside him.

Coming down from his dazzling high, all that reached Cloud's befuddled brain was sharp pain and the sudden loss of being filled, thick fluid dripping down the back of his thighs, legs feeling ready to give out under him any given minute.

Then there was the harsh sound of a zipper and the slam of the door, and then, nothing.

* * *

_"What is that?" he nodded towards the book. The sunlight streaking through the windows made everything seem all the more surreal, the china cups with coffee on the table and the silver kettle of real tea, the food that wasn't much but so much better than regular rations._

_"The Mein Kampf. Does that surprise you?" the other added, smiling as the bottom of Sephiroth's cup hit the plate with a loud clinking noise._

_"Why would you do that?"_

_"I want to understand him, your Führer. I want to understand how can someone lead people into battle with so much hate. I want to know... I want to know _why_."_

_He hated the hurt and sadness in those endless blue eyes striking him with guilt._

* * *

"We will send out everything we have, the Volkssturm, the Hitlerjugend... We will not lose!" Lazard slammed his fists down on his desk.

Sephiroth watched, calm on the outside but under the surface something bubbled up, something like happiness, even though he didn't know if he was still capable of feeling anything that wasn't anger or regret.

"The Reich shall live! We will cleanse the Earth of these barbarians and their bolshevik plague, and then all the filth who taint our race!" Lazard spat, that cold and slimy facade finally, finally coming undone for the first time since Sephiroth had met him.

If only they knew that their prized hero was one of the despised and lowly filth himself. So many times since his return from the front did he itch to tell them. It would've been his death sentence, and yet sometimes it was so hard not to stand up and slap them across their faces with the truth.

If only he could watch Lazard's face as he told him about that night, how he pulled the Russian commander between his legs, lips locked and hips hungry, how he asked for more, harder. The way that plush mouth, bruised and swollen from sucking and savage kisses moaned his name as he returned the favor, sinking deep into that tight body. Their final cry that knew no borders, language barriers or superior races, just bliss and sated craving and momentary peace in a world full of madness.

He could've done it now. They couldn't do anything to him now that he wouldn't do to himself.

He stood up to leave. No reason to spill pearls before the swines.

He was almost at the door when it opened and a man stumbled in, blood streaking down the side of his face in a thick cover, his uniform torn.

"News from the Tiergarten, Sir!"

He immediately knew that it wasn't favourable.

"Tell me everything."

* * *

"Cloud!"

He was stunned when the General stormed into his room, grabbed him and shook him like a rag doll, hard and merciless. "Cloud, do you trust me?"

With those green eyes pinning him under their serious stare, the only thing the boy could do was nod. How could he not trust Sephiroth? He was _the_ Generaloberst, the hero of the Crimea Campaign and in the confidence of the Führer himself. Yes, if the Führer trusted him, who was he not to do so? Sephiroth was his hero, someone who could command him to stand in the line of fire and he would do it without giving it a second thought.

Fleetingly, he remembered the words of the General from earlier that churned his guts with warning, with doubt; but hadn't the baron von Kleist warned them how dangerous it was? The enemy wanted them to be split, to turn against each other instead of fighting on…

He remembered the grip of gloved hands on his wrists, cheeks getting a tint of red before he forcefully nodded his head, lost in those green eyes, so close and threatening all of a sudden, and he staggered back a bit as the iron grip on his uniform suddenly and unexpectedly let go.

"Good."

The next moment those lips were on his, but even as he opened his mouth for the kiss, all he could think about was the realisation that the General had never actually kissed him before, not once. Butterflies danced in his stomach at the thought, even though the contact felt nothing like he would've expected, but messy and foreign.

When those gloved hands took hold of his head, sliding into his blonde hair and gripping securely as he heard the small snap of something, it was already too late. Instinct took over before realisation sank in, and he swallowed, bitter liquid burning down his throat as he choked.

Cyanide. It flashed through his mind in a soundless scream of hurt and betrayal, eyes snapping open and staring up at the man above him, face stern and sad as he stepped back, letting Cloud go with a whisper.

"We have lost. I'm sorry."

His knees gave out under him and he fell... and fell and fell and the room slowly, so very slowly moved past, the concrete floor of the bunker coming closer and closer.

They had lost... How could that happen? They were strong, and _those_ were just the dirt of the earth, worthless beings without a cause. Lies, lies lies... the General would never lie to him, would he? Surely, this was a misunderstanding...

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he couldn't move his hand, he couldn't even blink. Everything appeared frozen, and behind the strictly organised desk, the single light bulb drew twisted shadows. He never noticed before... how dirty the wall was, small specks of something brownish on them, how uneven it was with all those small dents and scratches.

So, they had lost... A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, but it rather sounded as a gurgle to his own ears. Defeated.

Then there was nothing but darkness. He didn't even feel as his head finally hit hard stone.

* * *

Sephiroth watched as he lay there, the poor little puppet, pretty puppet, sky blue eyes wide and blank, frozen over by death. Death was lurking in every corner now. He did what Lazard asked him to do. If it would've been an order, he would have just laughed into the man's face, so utterly broken and so very _afraid_.

He thought seeing Lazard like this would please him, but all he felt was a void inside that drained the colours of the world around him even as he slowly, silently nodded his head, gaze sliding to the photograph clutched between the nervous fingers of the blonde, of a little boy with bright blue eyes, too small for the rifle in his hands.

There was only one thing left for him to do now. He probably should have done it sooner. Maybe he needed that time to prepare. Maybe he needed to suffer his part in this living hell before he could do it. Maybe he just wanted to see this crazy regime fall down and be stepped on before he could go.

He was guilty too, just like everyone else. Maybe it was cowardice to give up now instead of taking responsibility for his actions. It could be seen as a sign of his commitment to the Führer and the Party. Was there a point in caring anyway? On the pages of history books, he would never be more than just another butcher.

He could stand up to his fate, to the capture, but that would mean turning traitor and he stayed here, with these men and women he despised from the depths of his heart, because he was too proud to leave the sinking ship like a rat afraid of drowning.

That pride guided him back to his own room. He stood beside the desk, hands moving slowly, removing all his medals and insignia. He could never erase them, but at least he was not going to die in them. He stripped off the armband and the patches, placed his cap carefully on the desk. There was a small vial already waiting next to the letter opener with the ivory handle that he was given as a present when he was promoted to Brigadeführer.

Seeing the pen next to it he paused for a second, glancing at the neat stack of paper and envelopes on the right. Maybe, he could leave a few lines, not apologies or excuses that held no meaning, but perhaps that he didn't forget those days, that he wasn't sorry… He shook his head slightly. Even if he died, it would be nothing but trouble. No need to start being sentimental in the last moment. The time for words was over.

He opened the small cabinet by the bed, taking out a bottle, the last one. The neck clinked a bit when it touched glass, the clear liquid pouring with a soft sound. Clear but strong, it would make the taste of the almond disappear, wash away the bittersweetness of a stolen first kiss.

He took the glass between his gloved fingers, but then thought better of it. His head was already pounding with the small amount of poison that got into his bloodstream. It would probably kill him anyway, but he wanted it to be quiet, quick, efficient. He didn't deserve it, but then neither did the others, he told himself as he lowered himself on the hard bed, the shot of vodka in one hand and the vial in the other.

* * *

_"Untermensch," he tasted the word, weighting it on his tongue, his forehead creased with concentration. "Did you believe it?"_

_He sighed. "No."_

_"It was you who attacked first. It was you who took away our land and massacred our people, because we are inferior..."_

_His stomach churned with each word like a stab of accusation, even though the other wasn't even looking at him, thoughtful eyes watching the light creeping in under the curtains, his voice hoarse and dreamy._

_"We will defeat your Führer. One day, the slaves and servants of your proud Aryans will deafeat your precious Reich, and then..."_

_"And then?"_

_The smile on that face was the most bedazzling thing he had ever seen, sunlight pooling in blue eyes._

_"Then? Peace, druže."_

* * *

The bunker was deadly silent when they finally set foot inside. The troops had already been in there, rooting out any kind of opposition still remaining before the officers would follow.

It was like walking into a tomb, Genesis noted with some discomfort, adjusting the strap of his Tokarev before entering, making sure the weapon was in reach and ready should he need it. It was a highly unlikely option, but he wasn't standing where he was because he took chances in life.

It was quiet, darker than he would've liked, suffocating. Narrow corridors and low ceilings, like the night was pressing down onto it with a weight that made everything seem smaller. Their footsteps echoed faintly, quilted jackets swishing quietly as they methodically searched the rooms, one by one.

He looked down at the lifeless body of a youth, barely more than a kid with his crown of golden hair and deep blue eyes.

"Poisoned, like the others." The medic stood up from his kneeling position beside the boy, and Genesis nodded wearily. He had seen them fight, these child soldiers like ferocious beasts, throwing themselves into the line of fire rather than surrender. He wouldn't have believed it weren't it for seeing with his own eyes.

More rooms followed, some empty, some not. It was deep in the heart of the complex when they found the first officer. Then more and more…

He looked down on the body lying on the narrow bed, the dreaded black uniform pristine on the lifeless form as if ready for his funeral. It was the face that caught his eye, and the long mass of silver hair, trademark of a man everyone knew and feared from London to Nižnij Novgorod; the Black General, the Lion of Crimea.

"Leave the room," he ordered, and they obliged with a loud 'Yes, Polkovnik General, Sir!'

He looked at the table, the symbols of power lying there, neatly arranged. He thought about taking one, but they were cold and meaningless without the man to give them power. His eyes returned to the body on the bed.

He leaned down and combed his fingers through the long silver hair, straightening the tresses that the spasms of death left tangled, arranged them reverently beside the still body, placing one strong, elegant hand on the broad chest and the other on top. The SS Generaloberst seemed peaceful, almost angelic in death.

"It's over now. May you finally find your peace too, druže."

Lips brushing along pale lips for the last time but never quite forgotten, he turned around and left. To see more bodies, those of women and children in a grotesque exhibition of death and destruction, to gather everything of worth like some sort of late vulture, to find answers and rationality in the chaos and madness.

Above the Berlin rooftops, the wind played with red flags showing a hammer crossed with a sickle in the rising sun.

* * *

Notes:

(1) Generaloberst – okay, I realise this could be confusing. Seph's rank here is Generaloberst der Waffen-SS or Generaloberst for short, because I put him into the Waffen-SS, and ranks in the Waffen-SS as opposed to the rest of the bunch are different. Genesis calls him General because back then he is still only General der Waffen-SS, or General for short, which is the equivalent of the rank 'General' in English, which I'm using in the narrative parts of the story.

(2) Sig Runes – or S runes, the S shaped sign worn in pairs by the members of the SS on their uniform, standing for, you guessed right, SS. Members of the Hitler Youth could wear only one such sign.

(3) Geneva Conventions – don't look at me like that. The third convention that deals with the treatment of prisoners of war was issued in 1929, so it was absolutely valid (if overlooked) during WW2.

(4) Druže – supposedly (stress on supposedly), this is Russian for 'friend' or 'comrade'.

(5) Wille und Macht – the regularly issued Wille und Macht (Will and Power) magazine was the official organ of the Hitler Youth.

(6) Tokarev – Although design work on the AK began in 1944, the first time it was presented for official military trials was in 1946. So no, the Russians did _not_ storm Berlin swinging their Kalashnikovs. The Mosin Nagant was more common, but meh, we all know Genesis is an elitist.

* * *

**Please tell me what you think so far. Story continues in Part 2.** **:)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Written for the lovely Chaos. Happy belated birthday, dear! Huge thanks for the beta reading go to the awesome Georgie. Also, please bear in mind the following:

1. This is historical fiction. I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but this is still only fiction, and I took liberties here and there.  
2. I will say it once and only once to avoid any misunderstandings. The offensive ideologies depicted here have nothing to do with my own personal views, they belong to the characters.  
3. Constructive criticism is much encouraged and appreciated!

* * *

**For No Good Reason**

We shall find peace. We shall hear angels. ~Anton Chekov

* * *

**1946, Moscow**

Brisk steps carried him to the familiar door. He knocked lightly, but didn't wait for an answer.

"I'm expected," he said to the secretary without pausing on his way across the small office. Hand on the doorknob, he heard the young woman stuttering something about refreshments.

"I wish not to be disturbed," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Genesis!" Angeal stood up from his desk and met him halfway, pulling him into a bone-breaking bearhug. "I haven't seen you since... since Smolensk!"

Genesis returned the hug wholeheartedly, tilting his head up for the customary kisses on the cheeks.

"I missed you too, my friend."

Angeal's tone suddenly turned quiet and solemn.

"There were times I honestly didn't expect to see you ever again, Genushka."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that ever again?" Genesis rolled his eyes, but Angeal just laughed it off.

"Until the end of time, of course. Come, take a seat and tell me to what do I owe the pleasure."

"Have you checked the request I have sent you?" Genesis sat down comfortably, expression serious once again.

"I did." Angeal took up his place behind the desk again, pushing the box of cigarettes closer in offering. "What is this new madness you've gotten yourself into?"

Genesis shook his head at the offer and lit a cigarillo of his own. The wind lifted the curtains of the open windows slightly, bringing the scent of flowers and the canteen downstairs.

"I don't want you to get involved."

"I _am_ involved, Genesis."

"This is an official request from a superior officer. You have no responsibility."

"Except, the officer in question is widely known to be my friend. Who should just sit at home and avoid raising any kind of suspicion. You are an aristocrat, Genesis. Your life has been hanging by a thread ever since you were born, and you can thank the God you believe in so that your father was too important to be deported."

"My father is dead, and the war is over. I have no illusions, Angeal."

"It's different. You are a General now."

He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and blew out a thick string of smoke that hung bitterly in the humid air that heralded rain.

"The NKVD offered to take me."

Angeal's face brightened in an instant with relief.

"Congratulations, my friend! If you enter the secret police, that means your position is secure. Of course, with the recent power struggle, one has to be very cautious, but given your reputation..."

"I refused."

The smile froze quicker than it appeared, and he watched as Angeal paled almost to the point of matching the wall behind him.

"You...?"

Genesis just took another drag and nodded nonchalantly.

"Are you _insane_, Genesis?" Angeal winced, eyes wide.

"They have their eyes on me. Once they start digging into my past..."

"You have always served the Motherland faithfully."

He couldn't help but chuckle dryly. "Like that ever stopped them before."

"And yet you want to do this!" Angeal snapped suddenly, lowering his voice almost immediately, his concern evident. "If someone gets wind of this, you are a dead man, Genesis."

The ghost of a smile curved his lips, but there was no mirth in it.

"I am dead and have been for a long while."

* * *

_"Breakfast has been served, Lieutenant Colonel," the Major informed him. He nodded and turned to the other man in their company with a slight smile on his lips._

_"Shall we, General?"_

_"Why treat me like a guest?" he asked stiffly._

_Genesis laughed._

_"My father," he started in a conversational tone, "was a landowner. Quite wealthy, I might add. While the Major here would love to see you beaten up in a dark underground cell for sure, my standards are a bit... different, you see. Until the negotiations on the exchange of captive officers are concluded, you shall stay here and delight me with an opportunity to indulge in the finer acts of culture, like showing hospitality and practicing my German."_

_The Major excused himself, red and shaking with rage as he left._

_Genesis watched him retreat with a glint in his eye._

_"Hypocrites, all of them, and they hate to be reminded. You could say I'm leading those to victory who consider me a class enemy... quite ironic, wouldn't you agree?"_

_There was a flash in green eyes; the General had been unusually silent during the meal._

* * *

"General!" the tentative voice called, and he reluctantly let the dream slip, opening his eyes and blinking to adjust to the light in the booth. The conductor stood in the doorway, face apologetic.

"You are getting off at the next stop, Sir, so I came to wake you as you requested." His fingers toyed nervously with the hem of the cap that he had respectfully taken off.

Genesis noted with a shadow of amusement that the elderly man didn't call him comrade as he probably would've done with others. The perfectly arranged, immaculate khaki uniform of the Red Army was still more powerful than the word of the Party, which filled him with a sense of gloating satisfaction.

"Thank you," he murmured and sent the man on his way with a few chervonets notes.

When he was alone, he let out a sigh and released his white-knuckled grip on his bag.

* * *

**19****46, Vorkuta**

There was cold in the barracks, and he pulled his blanket around himself tighter. Back to the wall, he brought up his knees against his chest and hugged them with his thin arms in a futile attempt to stay warm.

Footsteps rattled across the corridor, too late for the morning patrol and too early for breakfast.

"Some hotshot from Moscow wants to see one of the Zeks."

"At least he could've waited until we drank our coffees."

"Seems like he wants to catch the train before it goes back."

"You can see how totally pissed he is that he had to come here. I bet he's bitchy for having to leave some pretty Moscow actress behind."

"This?" The other guard laughed whinnyingly.

A key turned in the lock. Twelve pairs of haggard eyes were fixed on the door.

"Come on, Fritz." They pulled him up by the arms and ushered him outside. They passed a grey pile, dead bodies waiting for winter's grip to loosen on the soil so they could be buried at last, by then just as much part of the landscape as the trees or the buildings.

They pushed him into the main barrack, down the corridor and into a room that was empty except for the table and the four chairs around it. He was pushed into the one facing the entrance where the two guards took up position.

He straightened his back, thoughts a whirlwind inside his head. What did they want this time? It had been so long since they last came to get information, a confession; it's been years and years. Why did they bring him here again? He was certain they had forgotten him, given up on getting the plans back and finding the informators who leaked it.

Finally, the door opened and three men appeared. Two of them, the commandant and his lieutenant, he knew well. The third was a redhead who came to a frozen halt the moment their eyes met, jaws clenched tight.

"Leave us alone."

"But General…"

"Leave," he commanded in a colourless tone that left no room for argument.

"The guards are staying," the commandant finally croaked out, the newcomer looking at him like one would at a particularly repulsive bug. Then he nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

The moment the door closed he walked up to the table and took the opposite seat.

"Vincent Valentine, if I'm not mistaken."

He didn't answer.

"Taken prisoner after sustaining injuries in the Battle of Caporetto during the Great War, charged with infiltration and war crimes, sentenced to life imprisonment in the zone."

Vincent silently observed the man before him who pulled out a silver cigarette case and placed a slim cigarillo between his lips.

The silver lighter snapped once, twice.

The redhead took his time, taking a long drag and blowing out the smoke like they had all the time in the world. There was an air of careless arrogance surrounding him that couldn't come from rank alone.

The guards at the door drank in the scent of expensive tobacco greedily, nostrils flaring.

Right-handed, habitual smoker, unmarried. Old habits indeed die hard, and Vincent held back a wry quirk of his lips at his own conclusions.

"I would've thought twenty-six years in captivity would have been enough to learn our language, Herr Valentine."

He flinched at the German words, perfect as they were, and silently cursed himself for it a moment later.

"So, you _can_ hear me."

"What do you want from me?" he asked in fluent Russian.

"Ah, no, I would much prefer German. Cigarette?"

Vincent shook his head.

"Fine. I'm bored with the pleasantries."

Here it comes again, Vincent thought, and blinked confusedly as the redhead reached into his bag and took out a leather-bound book. He opened it carefully and took out a photograph, holding it as if it was somehow fragile. It was in a plastic cover to save it from becoming damaged further; it appeared to be quite weathered already.

Then he turned it, placed it on the desk and slid it closer.

It wasn't a professional picture, probably made for a newspaper in a rush. He could see four men in black uniforms with a lighter armband, one man's face only half visible.

He saw only one.

His hands started shaking and he put the photograph down, eyes still glued to one face even as tears threatened to escape and roll down his cheeks.

"You recognize him, don't you?" the redhead whispered, quickly putting the picture away.

Vincent could only nod. Nothing could ever erase those features from his mind.

_Lucretia. _

"What do you want?" he demanded, the hoarseness of his own voice surprising even himself.

The redhead took another slow drag.

"That, Herr Valentine, depends on you, and only you."

* * *

_"Check mate."_

_"And so I lose yet again. It was a pleasure regardless." He lifted his glass in silent acknowledgement, knocking back the vodka and grimacing at the aftertase. "What I wouldn't give for a bottle of cognac right now."_

_"Just like on the battlefield, your impulsiveness got the best of you again." The other held out his glass for a refill._

_Glass clinked. They drank._

_"I must say I was impressed when you decided to cross the river yourself. How did you deal with the wounded?"_

_"Ropes and makeshift stretchers," the other shrugged. "Couldn't let you get your hands on them, now could I?"_

_"Just as much as I could let you get yours on my ammunition," he smirked. "It spiced up things for that month a bit."_

_"Can't say I didn't enjoy the challange." The smug look was back in those green eyes that made his own so much sharper._

_"Likewise, General."_

* * *

Vincent sat down on the seat, smoothing the cover over with his palm. Despite the cool of the material, in the booth it was warm.

He looked up as the redhead came back with a rough canvas bag that he casually threw at him.

"Bread and cheese, it's all I could get." He sat down facing him and lit another cigarillo, putting his polished boots up on the opposite seat. "What a godforsaken place."

His hand froze in mid-air and he cast a degrading glance at the younger man, but decided against speaking up.

"Oh, just say it. I can see the thoughts running through your head. _What does he know, this snotty kid who earned his rank through money?_ You wouldn't be the first," the redhead dared, expression more a snarl than a smile.

"Congratulations."

One red, elegant eyebrow arched.

"For a moment back there I believed that that transition order was actually real. I can't believe that after twenty-six years in the lagerya, I just walked out," he added, looking out of the window.

"Why, thank you. What gave me away in the end, if I may ask?"

"It was too perfect."

"Good to know the next time I decide to do it again."

The wheels shrieked and the train shook violently before it sprang into rough, accelerating motion.

"Why did you do it this time?"

"I'm sure you understand that I'm disinclined to discuss the matter here." Those azure eyes bore into his with the same careless arrogance from before, a haughty toss of the head accompanying the words. "We have appearances to keep up; that's why the handcuffs are staying."

"At least care to give me your name?" Vincent arched an eyebrow.

The redhead bowed, making pure mockery out of the old fashioned courtesy.

"Genesis Rhapsodos, by the grace of God formerly the seventeenth count of Banora, by the grace of the party General of the Red Army, at your service."

"Tell me, _General_, my wife, my son... Are they alive? Are they well? At least this one thing I have to know." He could feel renewed determination burn in his eyes that he thought long dead inside him as day after day he worked and suffered without a glint of hope, just for the sake of staying alive.

And it was the General who looked away first, voice but a soft whisper.

"I'm sorry."

He could do nothing but stare. At the brown wall, the cracks, the number above the opposite seat. At the dust that danced through the air in the faint, early sunlight.

"Your wife went missing after a bombing raid," the redhead spoke again, eyes on something outside, maybe the trees, maybe the clouds. "No one was looking for her and they closed the case soon. Your son... he committed suicide when our troops occupied Berlin."

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it without a word as the General shook his head, face stern but blue eyes hollow.

* * *

**1946, Konosha**

"It was early in the winter when I met him. Not in person, of course, just through the reports of our spies and the devastation we suffered since the day he took command."

His rich voice filled the small space like a wistful melody, wrapping around them like a soft veil of remembrance. The room they shared was seedy, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the dust. It wasn't like they had much choice but to take the best they could at the only place in town that offered accomodation.

Vincent's eyes were fixed on him, the light of the setting sun turning their brown to an almost crimson color as he listened, hands in his lap toying with the picture from earlier.

Distractedly, he combed through his copper tresses with one hand. It was harder than he imagined it would be, much harder. Years had passed. It had no right to hurt.

"He was the best strategist I have ever met," he finally said with the hint of a smile, solemn though it was.

Vincent nodded, fingers smoothing over the faded photograph in a longing caress.

"How ironic that I get to know him through the words of a stranger. I have never seen my son, did you know that? Just the early pictures that reached me during the war, before the letters no longer made it to the frontlines."

"He might not have known you, but he spoke about you with respect and longing. From what I gather, his stepfather never managed to inspire any of those feelings."

"What happened to Hojo?"

"The good professor has been charged by participating in genocide and conducting forbidden human experiments on the prisoners of the extermination camps. The Vatican took him under its wings and by the intervention of Cardinal Weiss he eventually left the country."

"That's all? For all he had done... exile," Vincent murmured bitterly.

"If it's any consolation, he was sentenced to death in his absence."

"No, it's not."

He just nodded distractedly. Silence settled over them.

"I should've been there." Vincent looked into the sun.

"Before or after you got out of the Gulag and crossed the steppe all by yourself? Please."

"Don't 'please' me, kid. I was already fighting on the frontlines when you weren't even a thought on your parents' mind."

A small, wicked laugh slipped past Genesis' lips, blue eyes sparkling up.

"Don't worry, you are not my type."

"Don't twist my words."

"You are a lot like him," he said, suddenly serious again.

Vincent looked down on the picture in his hands, words leaving him like a prolonged sigh.

"So how did you meet in the end?"

Genesis crossed his legs, lighting up another smoke.

"It was after we took back Izyum from the Germans. He stayed back to make sure that every last one of his men made it out safely. I wasn't there when he was captured, but I was all too eager to finally look him in the eye. Call it morbid curiosity, but we'd been playing a game of cat and mouse for over a year by then. He did things not many would've done in his place."

He took a long drag, the smoke he exhaled wreathing around him like a pink and grey halo as the last rays of the sun painted it, setting the red of his hair on fire. He picked up the habit after the SS General left; it helped to calm him, to tame the restlessness, the strange longing that overcame his thoughts at night. "Like what he did at Izyum," he added as an afterthought.

Yes, he had burned with excitement to meet the man who had been his rival for so long, just to find that when he finally did, ready to show his gloating malice, to bask in his own triumph, he could not. It was all in one look... one look of green brill eyes.

He took another drag.

"He was there for a little over two months. We had time to... talk."

"What about?"

"Strategy, tactics, weaponry, logistics, there was an abundance of topics for us to discuss. Even then, the rivalry stayed, at nights we played chess or discussed tactical manoeuvres over the maps. Later on poetry, philosophy, politics… You seem surprised," he offered Vincent a wry half-smile. But the other didn't answer, and he went on. "Yes, politics. He wasn't happy with the way things were. None of us were. Maybe that was where everything started. Common ground against the surrounding hatred we have been dissolved in."

He stubbed out the smoke. The words were coming easier now, flowing like they had been waiting to be told, ripening through sleepless nights.

"It was so easy to hate back then. It became the driving force of people. Peace, love, accordance, they no longer held a meaning. Just us and them. Principles, ethics, it became unheard of. For a while I thought I must be crazy, but it was the world that was spiralling into madness. I could tell you about the things I saw... but it would only be a drop in the ocean." He shook his head slightly.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?" Vincent asked finally, and could see something flash across the redhead's face. He seemed surprised at the question, eyes mildly amused but voice distant as he replied.

"For no good reason. For no good reason at all."

* * *

_"I didn't know where the transports went. I didn't care what happened. It wasn't my job, my concern. Until Chelmno."_

_He watched that patrician face, the endless black lashes lowering over green eyes. The rich mouth thinned into a strict line, his tone flat, features like stone._

_"They were proud of it. They were killing helpless civilians and they... It was just a short visit. Just to show us the hard work they put into purifying the master race, as they said. They served tea and talked about Wagner, then shot a woman and watched laughing as the body spasmed in the dirt," he paused, eyes staring into emptiness, seeing something else. "She didn't die quick enough. So they let the guard dogs maul her to death."_

_He just nodded silently in understanding._

_"What monsters we have given power to," the other said finally, looking up as he heard his bitter laugh._

_"Monsters." He knocked back another shot, blue eyes fixed on the flames that danced in time with the wind howling outside. "Have you ever heard about Katyn, druže?"_

_He rather felt the other shake his head than saw it._

_"No, indeed not. Why would you have heard about it? Just one of our little secrets..." His throat tightened suddenly, like someone stepped on it, but for the first time he forced himself to speak, his voice coming out hollow and unfamiliar to his own ears._

_"The first transport had almost four hundred people. The next ones had to be restricted to two hundred and fifty. They were Poles, prisoners of war. We just couldn't kill so many during one night. Colonels, majors, captains or what have you by the hundreds. They brought them from the camp and led them through the door one by one. Cock the gun, aim, bullet to the back of the neck, quick, efficient. They piled them on trucks like sheaves of grain and there came the next... and the next and the next until your palms bled or dawn came."_

_He took a long pull directly from the bottle, soft thud as the bottom hit the table again._

_"And when night fell, it started all over again, cock, aim, pull the trigger, don't think, don't listen if they are praying, singing or begging. They are all silent afterwards. Execution, they said, but it was nothing but a bloody massacre, slaughter..."_

_He was cut off by lips brushing a soft kiss on his cheek, sliding lower and covering his. As his hands tied into long silver tresses with newfound urgency, he could taste the salt of the lone tear that finally escaped his carefully sculpted facade._

* * *

He woke with a start, heart hammering in his chest and eyes unfocused. As things started to take shape, for a moment he didn't know where he was, nails sinking into the bedcovers in panic as his own ragged breathing deafened his ears.

At last, he recognised the small room, the sour stench of dilapidation that seemed to emanate from everywhere. He closed his eyes, but opened them again, fading images of his dream still lurking behind his eyelids.

Outside, the darkness had already started to dissolve in the approaching light, cold greyness seeping through the windows. He glanced at the quietly sleeping form on the other bed, but the older man kept on breathing softly and steadily.

He got up and grabbed the towel that came with the bedclothes. When he came back from the bathroom, Vincent was already awake, but if he noticed the purple tint to his lips, he didn't comment on it.

* * *

They ate breakfast in the inn. Vincent had been given a charcoal suit to wear, and it was like time had flowed backwards, like he was seventeen again. It was a little short in the sleeves, but not enough to be conspicuous. The material was soft to his calloused fingers like when he chaperoned young ladies in the park; it reminded him about afternoon visits at Elise, the soft touch of silk on his lips as he kissed delicate hands in greeting.

He slipped his tea distractedly, listening with only half of his attention as Genesis carried on about topics he deemed safe, world politics, literature, economy even. Sometimes he had thought while in the lagerya that he would give everything for this, intellectual conversation by the fireplace. He had imagined it would take place back home at Schloss Velden in the grand salon, a select few of his friends sitting in the rotund armchairs with brandy in their crystal glasses and Lucretia bringing in their son to say good night before bed.

How different the dream was than what he eventually got. His beloved Cretzi was dead, his son was dead, as probably most of his friends were. For a brief moment he wondered if those still alive even remembered him at all. The castle was probably destoyed by the bombings or given to a new owner... There was nothing left of the life he so desperately wanted to return to.

"If you'll excuse me." Genesis' melodic voice pulled him out of his thoughts, but he didn't need to answer, the General was already on his way to the only phone in the whole town, perched on the counter behind which an old, corpulent woman was scrunching on sunflower seeds, spitting the cods on the floor.

The call was short, but its effect on the redhead unmissable. When he returned to the table he was considerably paler, eyes taking on an almost feverish brightness.

"They know." His brows furrowed slightly, then he flashed a smile at Vincent, smug and wolfish.

"So they are already looking for us."

"Ang... a friend just told me," the redhead nodded, then stood up again. "I've already paid. We can talk on the way back."

They leisurely strolled up the small hill by the road. Heavy, grim clouds hung in the air, scarce rays of sunlight finding their way through the thick cover and lighting up the livid landscape with flares of green and gold. Wind tugged on their hair in sudden, wild gushes.

"The commandant finally figured out something was suspicious and wired to Moscow. They are looking for us," Genesis said, brushing unruly tresses out of his face, then he silently laughed to himself and repeated it. "They are looking for us."

He seemed galvanized with the news, more alive than Vincent had ever seen him in the past days. Like something revived in him and pulled him away from the enervation of his class that he slipped into during the long hours of their travel.

"He did everything I asked of him. We are taking the train to St. Petersburg on Thursday as planned. Once there, a ship will be waiting to take you to Helsinki. Everything is set."

"How do we know he's not playing us?"

"I trust him with my life. There is no reason for you not to do the same," the redhead replied coldly.

"And how exactly do you plan on reaching St. Petersburg without getting ourselves killed?" Vincent arched an eyebrow, indifferent about the General's sudden iciness.

"Leave that to me, Valentine." Genesis' fine features lit up with a devilish smile.

* * *

When they finally returned to the room, Genesis handed him a small package.

"Better keep this on you. Just in case," he said lightly, even though it was all too clear what 'just in case' meant.

Vincent took it, unwrapping the brown paper and his eyes widened. He flipped through the pages, quicker and quicker as he neared the end, wetting his dry lips with his tongue.

"You..." he looked up, dumbfounded.

Genesis just smirked in his usual haughty manner.

"Why are you doing this? And don't you try feed me some crap, Genesis." Vincent's brown eyes were severe with anger. "You are amused that you can screw with the authorities, so be it. But this... _this_ has nothing to do with it," he lifted up the package to emphasize the point.

"So what?" the redhead snarled back.

"What is it you really want from me?"

"I want nothing from you."

"Really, now?" Vincent's eyes narrowed to slits. "You appear out of the blue, pull me out of the lagerya, you pay everything for me, hell, you bought _Velden_ and now you are handing me the papers that give it back to me... and I am supposed to believe that?"

"What is it you want me to say?"

"Why?" Vincent demanded.

"Why? You want to know why? Because he _told me_!" Genesis snapped, then suddenly fell silent, subsiding into a nearby chair, hunches of his palms pressed into his eyes. "Sephiroth told me... He asked to be stationed at the eastern front in hopes of finding you."

"Finding me," Vincent echoed hollowly.

"He somehow got to know about your time spent in Arkhangelsk. He did everything to sign up for the Moscow campaign, but in the end, it was me he had to face." Genesis looked up, his fury replaced with sorrow.

"The two of you..."

Genesis bit his lip and looked away.

That was all the answer he needed, and Vincent slowly nodded. "I see."

Suddenly, Genesis was back on his feet and right in front of him, fierce blue eyes boring into his.

"No. You have no idea."

* * *

_There was no answer, just thin, rich lips on his as he was pulled between long legs to sate a need, a craving, to lose himself and forget everything. He replied in the only way he knew how, with searing, demanding passion, lips devouring skin and fingers fumbling with clothes, buckles, buttons, impatient, desperate._

_He sucked on the tongue invading his mouth, back colliding with the wall and teeth clinking, the consuming kiss leaving his lips bruised and swollen and his body aching. Fingers entwined in long, silver hair he arched his neck, pushing the other down his body._

_There was no sound but their heavy breathing, low moans caught in his throat as he was engulfed in slick, wet heat. He thrust his hips, but the General pulled away just to take his hand and suck in two fingers, letting him know what he wanted._

_He was more than eager to comply, taking and taking and taking without thought, grip tight, forehead resting on forehead as he finally reached his release._

_He sank down then, ready to pay back everything, but he was pushed on his back, panting and awash with sweat and pleasure._

_The other pushed deep inside of him with an urgency, a hunger that sparked something inside his soul. Without thinking, he bit, he sank his nails into pale skin, raking them down, the feeling of the hard muscles of the other's back, the strength of the hips pushing into his with every motion made him lose himself to that solidness, that stability of their rocking motion as he rolled his hips to meet every slow-deep thrust that marked him a traitor._

* * *

"Papers, please." The door of the booth opened, rattling wheels gaining volume. The conductor was a small, round man with a thick dark beard and pale eyes, but the one who attracted their gazes was the man standing behind him. The uniform of the Red Army, even though slightly unkempt, was still easily distinguishable. The soldier's deeply set, dark eyes swept over them like a hawk's over a field, then he stiffly saluted.

"At ease," Genesis nodded, holding out his papers to the conductor.

It was the soldier who took them.

"Is there something wrong, Sergeant?"

"Haven't you heard? They are looking for an officer who deserted and an escaped prisoner," the conductor chirped excitedly, then looked at the General's uniform and fell silent, his face flushed wine red with embarassment.

Genesis gave him a cutting, condescending look, then turned his attention back to the officer.

"Good luck finding them, Sergeant. Enemies of the system deserve no mercy."

"I see you are coming back from the Vorkuta region."

"Correct."

"What business brought you there?"

"The ambassador had been a guest on my estate," Genesis shrugged nonchalantly.

"Your papers, please," the soldier turned to Vincent, who just blinked and slowly reached into his pocket, eyes questioning. He gave the perfect impression of someone who didn't understand a word of what was being said but made the good guess.

"That won't be necessary," Genesis stopped him with a gesture, eyes sharp and locked with those of the Sergeant. "I'm sure you understand I wouldn't want to compromise our position by something like this when our relations with the Allies are precarious at best."

"O-of course, Sir. But..."

"Consider it an order, Sergeant. I am personally responsible to the foreign minister that Herr von Valenstein leaves with the best impression. Good day." He nodded at the two of them, and the conductor and the soldier both decided it was in their best interests to comply with the silent order, the Sergeant throwing them a dark, contemplative look over his shoulder.

* * *

**1946, St. Petersburg**

"Hey, you, wait!"

"Keep going," Genesis whispered, keeping his steps steady and his head high.

"You there! Stop!"

They pushed through the crowd at the train station. His heart hammered in his chest, and his palms started to sweat. He gripped the handle of his suitcase harder.

He felt a hand fall on his shoulder and he froze.

"May I inquire what is...?" Genesis turned back, sounding more bored than annoyed. Then his lips spread into a thin smile. "My, my, Major Nero... Long time no see."

"General Rhapsodos," The black haired youth saluted lightly, eyes remaining as hard as stone.

"What can I do for you, Nero?"

"I have been informed that the papers of your companion haven't been checked. Is that correct?"

"It is, though I fail to see..."

"I'm afraid we cannot make exceptions, Sir."

To his surprise, Genesis laughed, a light, cultured sound.

"Ah, you are on about those prisoners, right? In that case, I see no reason why he would mind. I'm sure he'll find it as amusing as I do."

He translated Nero's words to Vincent who nodded with a slight smile and handed his papers over for inspection. The passers by gave them curious glances but then hurried away to mind their own business.

For a moment, time stood still. Nero flipped a page, eyes scanning the lines. Then he looked up.

"The bags," he ordered flatly, and they didn't resist as their luggage was taken from them.

Genesis just arched an eyebrow incredulously, highly amused.

The lock opened and snapped shut with a loud click.

"Everything is in order, Sir," a young Cadet reported.

"Your fervor is indeed admirable, tovarishch. I will make sure to mention it to the First Secretary when I meet him. The Party needs more people like yourself," Genesis gave a reserved nod of his head at Nero, for a moment letting all that made him commanding show, his grace and deceptive charm belied by the battle hardened look of his eyes.

The soldiers saluted, but he didn't bother to acknowledge them. He turned away, brisk steps carrying him to the black car that was waiting for them, Vincent following him.

"General!" the Major called after them, and Genesis stopped, turned his head slightly without glancing back over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Nero said coldly, no real apology in his voice.

Hidden by copper locks, Genesis' lips spread into a sweetly poisonous smile.

"Thank you, Major."

* * *

"You've never told me where you got those papers from." Vincent leant on the railing, elbows on the rusting metal as he stared at the desolate waves. The horizon was wrapped in mist, the sun but a pale grey glow above the water.

Genesis lifted his head, damp, salty wind tangling his bright hair.

The waves murmured of loss as they kissed the moles.

"I got them from a marine officer called Zack Fair. I met him in Hamburg in a seedy downtown bar. He was drunk off his ass and bragged about knowing the Black General. It turned out to be true. For a short while he served under Sephiroth in Poland _and _he also happened to be involved in the flourishing black market of the city. Getting a diplomat passport was nothing for him. Should you need anything upon your return, he assured me he will be more than happy to help. You can find his address on the contract papers."

"Seems like my son had the ability to attract outstanding friends." Vincent glanced at him warmly, then returned his eyes to the play of the waves.

"Not without reason."

For a while they listened to the waves.

"You should go," Genesis spoke up eventually. "You should be on board already."

"Come with me to Germany." Vincent turned to face him, but Genesis remained staring at the sea.

"What for?" he laughed, but it was a hollow sound, fleeting and hopeless.

"You could live in Velden."

"I've killed countless Germans and now I should live there?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Perhaps... perhaps not."

"They will kill you if you stay."

"Get on the ship," Genesis' melodic voice came out surprisingly gentle, and Vincent watched as the man turned and leant back on the railing, stuffing his hands in his pockets but refusing to pull out the silver cigarette case.

"Genesis..."

"You know my answer, Vincent."

"So you have decided."

"They will save me the trouble of having to do it myself."

"But why...?"

"They have created the monsters we became, but the world no longer embraces us. There is no turning back. Just silence as the curtain falls. Do you understand this, Vincent?"

"It shouldn't be this way."

"Life isn't fair," Genesis slowly, gently brushed his fingertips over his lips, his blue eyes distant.

* * *

_"What are you thinking of?"_

_"Pancakes."_

_"Pancakes?" he laughed quietly, freely, for the first time in what seemed like forever. He rolled over and felt the other's arm curl immediately against his back, holding him close and he smiled, settling his head in the cradle of the other's shoulder._

_There was the coolness of silky silver hair on his face as it fanned out underneath, the hardness of muscles under his hand. He watched it move as the other breathed, felt it with everything in his being, marvelling at its simple beauty._

_"My mother used to make them for me when I was little. I would wake up with that wonderful scent wafting in through the open door." Those long, elegant fingers traced idle, intricate patterns on his back and shoulder._

_Sunlight poured in through the cracks of the shutters. Speckles of dust danced in the light, pale, forlorn gold giving the room a dim glow._

_He felt the shift of that body and tilted his head to look at the other man. He raised his hand and traced the side of that face with a fingertip, committing the curve to memory, the smoothness of skin and the green of the eyes as they came closer._

_He had said before that they would find peace when they had won. They must have done, because after so long, it was peace he felt._

_Slow, wanting, he parted his lips to the kiss._

* * *

He turned the corner, stepping into the small, quiet street. He was in no hurry, walking with measured, graceful steps. There was a church further down the road, his destination, bells greeting the break of day with their majestic, mystifying sound.

"Stop and turn around slowly."

"You are late," he said as he did so. "He has already left the country."

"Did you think you can just get away with it? That we won't check the name? That we won't find out about your schemes?"

"I was counting on it that you do."

"You are a rabid fox, Rhapsodos. You always have been," Nero snarled, fingers in a vice-like grip on his weapon. "I always knew you would be nothing but trouble."

"Nero, Nero. At least have the courtesy not to end my life by boring me to death."

"You are under arrest with charge of high treason against the party..."

Genesis just scoffed, pulling out his handgun, cautiously pointed at the concrete, eyes on the men with the Major.

"If you raise it, Rhapsodos..."

"What happens then?"

"I'm not here to kill you."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Major..." Genesis turned his eyes back to Nero and steadily started to raise his arm.

The bang echoed loudly in the narrow street. A few sleepy, ruffled pigeons took off the nearby ledges and soared above the city in the early sunlight.

* * *

Notes:

(1) Genushka – yes, I do realise that this is the feminine form of nicknames in Russian, but I just could not resist. Sadly, I can imagine him getting teased so by Angeal all too well.

(2) NKVD – Narodny Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, the Soviet secret police.

(3) Zeks – prisoners in the camps.

(4) Fritz – a widely spread nickname for the Germans during the war.

(5) The Great War – World War I.

(6) The zone – the Russians often simply called the Gulag Archipelago 'the zone'.

(7) Lagerya – Russian for camp.

(8) Chelmno – the first extermination camp on Polish soil, opened in 1941.

(9) Katyn massacre – Refers to the massacre at Katyn Forest, near the villages of Katyn and Gnezdovo of Polish military officers in the Kozelsk prisoner-of-war camp. The number of victims is estimated at about 22,000.

(10) Schloss Velden – An existing castle in Austria. I came across it by accident while searching for a place for the Valentines and despite the location I decided to pick this, because of the allusion of Veld's name.

(11) Tovarishch – A Russian word meaning comrade, friend, colleague, or ally. In English, the word "comrade" is often a reference to Soviet communists or communists in general.

(12) The official title of the de-facto leader of the Soviet Union was the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. For a time the position was known and referred to simply as the 'First Secretary'.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed the story. Reviews are love, as always.**


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